


Baptistina (Come Crashing Down)

by craftingkatie



Series: Swallowed By The New [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcyland, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craftingkatie/pseuds/craftingkatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy's used to dust and dirt and dry heat- and fire and blood pounding in her ears and shiny metal death staring down at her in the desert- and everything is bright and polished and too loud and too fake. She shies away from the slick, tall buildings and is drawn towards the older walk-ups in rougher areas. The food tends to be better the further she gets from the lab. After five months in Jane’s apartment, she moves out and finds herself a new home in Hell’s Kitchen.</p><p>Darcy finds New York to be jeopardy friendly; Hell's Kitchen even more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swallowed by the New

**Author's Note:**

> I’m from Georgia. I know nothing of New York or even of New Mexico. I’m not a lawyer, nor do I pal around with scientists. I know people who are heroes, though. The everyday kind that makes your heart grow three sizes and make you want to hug the stuffing out of them? Those kind. My Darcy is a nurturer, a baker, a knitter, a helper. It’s been a strange journey to go from reading Darcy being shipped with everyone to jumping on the bandwagon. Nervewracking, actually, since so many of my favorite people write in Darcyland. There’s no beta here but a great bit of love.
> 
> Thank you for welcoming me, y’all.

Street fairs in Manhattan are a different animal than the ones in Puente Antiguo. Food still reigns as monarch over the festivities in both places, but the music, the attitude, the lack of gunpowder on the grilled meats highlights the change from town to City. She grabs a taco from a food truck, misses the heat but approves of the fusion flavors. There aren’t many carnival games and city ordinance put the kibosh on rides, but craft stalls, balloon animals, and face painting fill in the spaces between the food vendors. It’s two blocks of disconcerting fun and it’s exactly what she needs after a day of moving in with Jane.

Not for the first time, she wonders if convincing Jane to choose New York over London had been a bad plan. Darcy Lewis, Intern had jumped at the chance to be Darcy Lewis, Research Assistant and all the shiny new salary that came along with it. How Janey had managed to convince anyone that Darcy, with a fresh off the press Political Science degree, constituted the best available Research Assistant is anyone’s guess. (Actually, Darcy guesses it had to do with a talent for filibuster and determination. Jane had those down pat.) Darcy Lewis, Research Assistant ranked a relocation bonus but not a rehoming bonus. Jane ranked an apartment next to the shiny lab and the equipment therein; her work started immediately and really, no one could blame her in her search for Thor. Jane insists on rooming together.

~~

Darcy doesn’t stray far from Jane’s apartment. Jane’s settling in and then she’s at a conference and then she’s studying star charts and aside from calling to remind Jane that food is a thing and beds are fun to sleep in, Darcy really isn’t needed in the lab. She files notes from her couch, translates scribbled post-its and note cards that she grabs from Jane’s bag nightly- these being unimportant to the overarching theory, but lines of investigation to tug later as there is time. The city makes her uncomfortable and she knows well enough to give herself some slack when it comes to jumping headfirst into the newness of it all.

After so long in the desert, she has lost her city savvy (street smarts is such an overused term and city savvy has a satisfying hiss that makes her smile). Darcy walks too slow, stares for too long, can’t remember if she needs to go east or west- north or south?- to make her way to the lab without relying on apps.

She’s used to dust and dirt and dry heat- _and fire and blood pounding in her ears and shiny metal death staring down at her in the desert_ \- and everything is bright and polished and too loud and too fake. Maybe she should confide in Jane, but instead, she hides away in the apartment until she can work up the courage to explore.

Once she decides it’s time, Darcy owns the town. She discovers her top three favorite takeout places, her new favorite bar, and the corner market. She shies away from the slick, tall buildings and is drawn towards the older walk-ups in rougher areas. The food tends to be better the further she gets from the lab. After five months in Jane’s apartment, she moves out and finds herself a new home in Hell’s Kitchen. Jane doesn’t approve but Darcy settles in just fine, even without her taser.

~~

Her neighborhood may be rough, but the City is jeopardy friendly. Giant space whales wreck New York and destroy more than just buildings. Jane stays safe in her lab through it all; Darcy huddles in the basement of her building with other tenants. Some sing and some pray and some, somehow manage to catch a nap. There’s a blind man- Murdock, she thinks is his name, a baby lawyer- who helps her corral the children and keeps the peace when arguments inevitably break out.

Their building stands through it all, though one down the street is missing a chunk off the top. Across town, entire buildings were replaced by piles of rubble. She hears on the radio that some people are trapped in subway tunnels after they fled there to escape the fighting. There’s some mumbling and general discontent towards the Avengers as everyone takes in the damage, but Darcy has to figure they saved more than was damaged. She knows first hand that aliens don’t always give you a chance to get the civilians out of the way before attacking.

She pulls on rough work clothes the day after what the papers will dub the Battle of New York and goes out to help. People are removing rubble from the street and helping to board up storefronts smashed in the battle. Darcy wanders closer to Jane’s lab, closer to the epicenter of the fight, stopping to help as she walks but never staying for long.

Darcy peers round a corner of what used to be an alleyway and finds a familiar face perched on top of a mountain rubble, staring out into the street with a haunted look. She knows him from New Mexico. Agent Something-or-Another.... Barton? She takes a hesitant step forward and the man snaps to attention, all tension and angles and pain.

“Hey, friend.” She smiles and holds up a hand in greeting. She realizes she’s speaking to him like she wound to a wounded animal, but she’s not sure she could stop if she wanted to. He’s on alert, she’s on alert. He’s in pain, and she needs to help. “Do you remember me? Might not have ever been formally introduced. Darcy Lewis, the intern from Puente Antiguo? I, uh, tased Thor?”

He nods once, may even twitch the corner of his mouth up in acknowledgment. He recognizes her and the tension slips down a notch. “Some day, huh?” She steps closer while reaching in her purse; reconsiders the move when he tenses again and reaches for a weapon he either doesn’t have or she can’t see. She pauses and telegraphs her movements as she slowly pulls out a granola bar with two fingers and holds her hands up in front of her. “I came out to help and I brought snacks. Snacks always make me feel better and buddy, you look like you could use some.” He looks like he needs a month of sleep and another month of soup and nursing like her grandma used to do.

Darcy slowly approaches the mountain and holds the granola bar up. He takes it- gently, carefully- from her and sits back. “Can I join you on your mountain, dwarf king?” This time, he does bark a laugh and holds out a hand to help steady her as she picks her way to the top. His arms, she remembers, are strong as hell. Not Thor strong, but damn fine. She sits, unsteady, on a large slab and looks out into the street. “Were you a part of the battle?” She feels rather than sees his nod. She pats his knee twice, then returns her hands to her lap. “Thank you. Pretty sure you saved the city.”

“Broke the city.” He grinds out between his teeth and there’s the guilt and anger that had wrapped itself in the tension.

“Just a bit. Nothing that can’t be fixed. Not your fault aliens have God complexes.” Darcy doesn’t want to go too far down that conversational hole; her sleep, what little she had gotten, the night before had been full of death and fire. She took a deep breath and deliberately poured cheer into her voice. “So I can’t keep calling you Agent HotArms in my head. Can you tell me your name?”

“Clint,” he answers around a bite of granola bar. He breaks off a piece and offers it to her. When she accepts, he adds, “though you can keep calling me Agent HotArms,” and she definitely does not choke.

~~

Darcy spends her time after the incident not rebuilding the city but helping rebuild Clint. She talks to him for four hours that first day, buys him dinner from the one vendor on the street who has access to a working kitchen. She invites him back to her apartment to sleep, shrugs off his lewd jokes with a firm repeat of the offer, and reminds him to try and sleep wherever he winds up. She even goes so far as to program her number into his phone and give him general directions to her place.

Apparently, something in her offer sticks, because three days later he shows up at her fire escape and knocks at the window.

“Can’t use front doors like normal people- or call?” Dary grouses as she wedges the window open. Damn thing has been painted shut so many times, she’s surprised it still works. Better than being creeped out by the roof access doors the top floor gets. He climbs through into her room and his face is the very definition of devastation. Darcy can’t stop herself from wrapping him in a hug. “Hey, you’re okay. C’mon inside. Do you like tea? I’ve got tea or coffee and maybe some cookies.” She bundles him over to the couch and deposits him on it with a blanket around his shoulders.

He doesn’t talk at all that night- and she waits up, sits by him, falls asleep on the arm of the couch. The next morning, his story breaks out of him as the sun breaks over the fire escape. How Loki had hijacked his mind and body, how he had fought his partner, the things he had seen in the darkness of his mind- the things he feared seeing even now when he closed his eyes.

She wasn’t a therapist and she definitely wasn’t an agent. She couldn’t offer him anything other than comfort and trust but that seemed to help. He stayed with her for a week, that first stretch, then left for parts unknown only to show up again three weeks later.

Every time he had a bad night or a bad mission or just needed his DarcyTime (TM), he appeared at her window. At first, he talked and she listened. Then, they had bake-offs and movie nights. Jane was forgiving of the odd hours she kept when Clint needed time as it usually corresponded with Thor sweeping her away from her lab.

She falls into a comforting rhythm of lab time, Jane time, and Clint time. Darcy even manages to convince him to schedule a few nights rather than showing up unexpectedly. After half a year, she convinces him to use her front door every other time he visits. Mostly they stay in and she provides a distraction from his world. He sends her texts while he’s off on missions when he can and gives her contact information for the Black Widow.

(“Natasha.” he insists as he hands her the tiny slip of paper with no identifiers other than a phone number and a juvenile-seeming AOL screen name. “It’s just Natasha. If something happens to you- or if you think maybe something happened to me, call or send a message. She’ll find you if I am..unavailable.” He tries to make unavailable sound like he doesn’t mean dead, but he fails and she winds up hugging him and crying.)

A year after the incident, Clint’s still worried Loki left something of himself buried deep in his brain. When they go out together, usually later at night and usually to diners for milkshakes and fries, she feels him tense as they pass certain people. Most times, they’re thugs, all brawn and threatening glares but sometimes they’re suits, polished and slimy beneath their collars. She wonders, in the back of her mind, if that isn’t a little of Loki’s leftover darkness taking note of the darkness in others.

The worry convinces her to call Erik and check in on her other favorite scientist. He rambles a bit but at the end of the call, he seems genuinely pleased to have heard from her. She promises to visit and after she hangs up she shoots a text to Jane, reminding her to call their friend when she gets a chance.

~~

She realizes that people have noticed Clint’s coming and going when the lawyer- Matt, she now knows, who lives in one of the corner units facing the Billboard from Hell- asks after her boyfriend in that neighborly (read: nosy) way when they meet up in the laundry room. It’s been about four months since Clint has been by the apartment- SHIELD has kept him running for long consecutive stretches. Matt may be the only person from her building who had ever had the chance to interact with Clint, even briefly.

“Not my boyfriend, just a friend. He’s out of town for a bit; overseas on business.” She regrets her response immediately. Was that too much information? While panicking on the inside, she manages to calmly fold the shirt in her hands. Clint has been coaching her in the art of not telling everyone every little detail that could be used against her. She knows she must look panicked and, for one very shameful moment, she is relieved Matt can’t see her face.

“Ah, well.” Matt clears his throat and hefts his laundry bag. “Let me know if you need anything. Hope you hear from him soon.” When he leaves, she buries her face in her shirt to muffle her frustrated groan. Darcy seconds that hope. Two months with zero contact at all and she’s considered using the tiny slip of paper stashed in an empty pill bottle in her bathroom.

At the three month mark, she has a minor meltdown at work and Jane insists they take a break and go for alcohol and greasy food. They get take away and wind up dragging chairs up to the roof of her apartment building, reminiscing over New Mexico and ranting over stupid ass men and their stupid ass need to save the universe.

When they finally stumble their way back downstairs, she leaves the ratty chairs up on the roof. Darcy had forgotten how calming it could be to be up high. It may just be a new tradition; weekly drinks and smoggy sky gazing.

Her neighborhood is slowly rebuilding. There aren’t as many restaurants or hipster cafes as there was pre-Battle. Businesses have pulled out of the area, content to spend their money on shiny storefronts elsewhere, rather than rebuilding. Government grants are promised but don’t seem to ever come through. She knows there’s unrest in the streets, can see the uptick in crime from the stories her neighbors share and the crime blotters on various local blogs.

Darcy stops going out as much after dark and instead goes up. The roof becomes her own refuge at night, a part but apart from the city. Neighbors have moved on, been replaced but luckily no one else seems to stumble upon her hideaway.

~~

They are having nachos and tequila on the roof when they hear a gun shot a few blocks over. Darcy wants to go look, but between the two of them, they decide to stay where they are and not tempt fate. It takes seven minutes for sirens to reach them. They can’t hear what’s going on, so they do their best to ignore it.

Jane steals the last chip off the styrofoam container and turns to Darcy. “Why don’t you move back in with me?”

“Jane,” Darcy understands her friend. She knows wanting to protect someone from the world but this is her home, dammit.

“I have an honest to god security system and you’d be so much closer to work.” Jane chews thoughtfully. “You aren't going to but dammit, Darcy, it would make me feel better to have you closer. Is it such a bad thing to be comfortable?”

“Safer, you mean?” Darcy snags a stray jalapeno.

“That too. We could have sleepovers every night-”

Darcy breaks in with “when you remember to sleep.”

“Ice cream parties and movie nights-”

“When there isn’t a huge scientific breakthrough.” Darcy’s sing-song tune has Jane clenching her fists in her lap.

“Ugh, fine. Stay here. But be safe dammit.” Jane huffs out a breath and leaned back in her chair. “I worry about you.”

Darcy mirrors her friend, staring up at the blank blackness above them. “I worry about you too. That’s what friends are for, I think.” She changes the subject by bringing up the progress Jane had made on her latest bid for publication. Jane easily takes up the topic and rants about the snobbery of academia but continues to bring up the different benefits of moving in together while they work.

~~

It’s been four months and still, daily she shoots off a quick text reminding Clint she’s still here. It’s another month beyond that before she gets a short “im okay ttyl,” which, really Clint? That’s not the best way to announce you’re still alive. She shoots back a few question marks but receives no answer.

She bakes a cake and Jane knows better than to ask why.

“Is this chocolate?” is her only question.

“Dutch chocolate.” Darcy confirms and cuts a slice for her boss.

“If you move in with me, we could have cake every day. I would keep you in the baking supplies in exchange for baked goods.” Jane offers. She quickly shoves a bite in her mouth and turns away. Darcy stabs the knife into the cake and stalks down to the employee break room to make a cup of tea. She texts Clint for the fifth time that morning and then vows to turn off her phone and never use it again when she receives no response.

After two weeks with no further contact, Clint shows up at her window looking like week old roadkill. She packs a tote with snacks and drags him up to the roof. He talks, haltingly and with omissions that are glaringly obvious, and she listens.  Something happened. Something that’s torn him up inside and brought him back to how he was right after Loki. She wants to bundle him in a cocoon of blankets and never let him out again.

When he finally fades off into silence and then into a fitful sleep, she sits up and watches over him. Relief flows stronger than adrenaline through her and keeps her up deep into the night.

“Are you still awake?” his voice cuts into the still of her thoughts and she startles. It must be near dawn; 5AM maybe, as the street traffic has picked up. She thinks the bakery might be opening down the street. A siren- police? ambulance?- starts up, passes by and then fades.

“Yeah.” Darcy puts down her phone and shifts in her seat to face him. “You feeling any better?”

Clint scrubs his hands over his face and stands up to pace. “You should be sleeping. I shouldn’t have kept you up; shouldn’t have brought you into this.” His guilt strangles her, brings her anger to a boil. “You don’t need this in your life. I should leave--”

“I’m here because I damn well want to be. You don’t get to take my choice away, Barton.” Darcy bites down on a string of curses and forces herself to draw air into her lungs. Her hands are fists in her lap and her face is _not_ wet because she isn’t crying, dammit. “We are close enough that you should know better than to say something like that. I get to vent about Jane’s odd habits and the neighbors and their bass beats; you get to unload on me when you need to. That’s how we work; that’s how friends work; that’s why I’m here. Now, get your head out of your ass and buy me breakfast.” She mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘stupid ass heroes’ and stands up.

He enfolds her in a hug, squeezes her until her ribs protest, seems to search for the right words to say. “You remind me of Natasha sometimes;” and then, “sorry, I was wrapped in my own deal;” and then, “pancakes?” The apology mixed with the compliment (she’s like the Black Widow? Score!) and the offer of pancakes has her smiling into his shoulder.

Clint continues hying off into the great unknown, his missions sending him off on one- to two-week stints in God-Knows-Where doing I-Can’t-Tell-You-What. But their adventures continue in the meantime, sometimes with added superheroes. She thinks she may be the only person who greets the Black Widow with a hug. It’s only after she steps away that she considers that maybe it had been a bad idea. Natasha just smiles and ushers them in the cafe she had wanted Clint to try.

Watching crime fighting badasses pretend to be normal might just be her new favorite thing.


	2. Got a Devil in his eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy meets the Man in the Mask

_ For the love of Thor _ , she thinks to herself as she flails awake in her chair on the roof, the nightmare hot on her mental heels. Breathing gets easier as she stares up into the sky and reminds herself it was all just a dream. 

Darcy knows better, refuses to believe she would fall asleep on the roof instead of behind her nice locked door. She sits up and rubs grit from her eyes and barely manages not to scream as she becomes aware of a man in a black mask standing in front of her. 

“You shouldn’t sleep up here.” his voice is gruff. The entire top of his face is covered- can he even see through that mask?- and he’s dressed all in black, the material clinging to every muscle.

Darcy heaves a breath against the panic and snipes, “No shit, Sherlock. Apparently all manner of creepers frequent the rooftops.” She’s half asleep and mourning the sanctity of her hideaway.

A corner of his mouth ticks up and he huffs a quiet laugh. Darcy thinks  _ oh, hello, what a nice smile _ and  _ damn, he’s going to kill me now. Probably smile while he murders me. _ and  _ shit, I’m in my comfy pants. I don’t want to die in my ugly, comfy pants _ . “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s reassuring. Pretty sure bad guys lie.” She slowly stands up, rather than face impending death sitting down. “Hows about I see your hands up? Then maybe I’ll believe you.” Hands up mean she’ll have a warning before he pulls a weapon. The half smile stays as he raises his hands.  She edges backward to put the chair between them, looks back to  judge the distance between herself and the door. There’s a second door behind her to the right, but it leads down into someone’s apartment. The one to the left is further away and she knows for sure it will be unlocked.

When she turns around, he's on the other side of the chair and holding out her bag. “If I were a bad guy, I’m not sure we’d be chatting about it.” She snatches her bag and backs slowly to the door. He stays where he is, hands up, tracking her movement across the roof. When she has the door closed behind her she curses masked assholes that move like cats and she thinks she hears him laugh through the door.

~~

Reports on a local masked vigilante start popping up and from the descriptions, Darcy is pretty sure the vigilante is the same as the man who surprised her on the roof. From what she hears, he actually is one of the good guys. Some part of her feels guilty for assuming the worst but really, what was she supposed to think?

In the end, she makes a batch of chocolate chip cookies and leaves them in a plastic container on her chair. The note she puts with them reads “Thanks for not being a bad guy.” She thinks the apology is implied.

~~

It takes two days for her cookies to disappear and a day after that for the empty container to reappear. The man in the mask continues to take out minor criminals around the neighborhood. Darcy texts Clint to see if the Avengers know the identity of New York’s newest hero, but he’s gone radio silent again. She thinks that this time he may be out of the country.

Her world becomes insular when Clint is away, not that she minds. Her routine involves time with Jane and time with Netflix, and who could complain about that? It may be why she starts tuning into the discussion of the neighborhood hero. She listens to a man from a floor below her- Mr. Lu, an accountant- complain that the masked man is a crazy person who will turn against the city and can’t help but shake her head. She may mutter under her breath about her neighbor being the crazy one- and a drunk to boot. No one is close enough to hear except Matt and judging by the way he clenches his jaw and leaves without retrieving his mail, she thinks he might just agree with her.

She sees that a few people on Twitter have started a Mask Watch and absolutely does not spend time on her roof hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the night. The extra food she brings up with her is definitely not for him. Definitely not. (She leaves it on the chair with another note. This time, it’s gone by the next night.)

Darcy appreciates that the masked man turned out to be one of the good guys; it means her roof haven is still relatively safe and available for use. 

When she wakes up the sounds of her downstairs neighbor yelling at his son, she lays awake listening. Darcy doesn’t want any trouble, but the man sets her teeth on edge and always seems to be angry about something. Mrs. Faraday says she tried to call the authorities on them when they first moved in; the man drug his son up the stairs by his elbow and near about dislocated his shoulder. 

There’s a thump against the wall and a cry of pain. Without stopping to do more than slip on shoes and grab her phone, Darcy escapes to the roof as he rages on. She’s dialing Jane before she reaches the roof and she’s crying- hot, angry tears because, dammit, why is this happening?- by the time Jane answers.

“He’s beating his son. I just- I just know he is, Janey.” It’s not a wail, but it’s not from a place of calm either. Darcy feels the hitch in her breath and struggles to rein in her emotions.

“What- Who is? Darcy are you okay?” Jane is concern tinged with sleep.

“Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.” She sighs. “No, I’m not fine. The kid is not fine. My neighbor downstairs; Mrs. Faraday called to report him and they told her nothing could be done. He’s beating his son and nobody will do a damn thing.”

“Take a breath, Darcy. You can hear him beating his son- or you’ve seen it happen?” Jane is always calm in the face of Darcy’s raging. Whereas usually the woman is full of manic energy, when faced with panic- or anger, or anything rating a 10 on the Darcy Richter Scale- Jane is the picture of tranquility.

Darcy tries to match her composure, moves her energy into pacing and gnawing on her thumbnail. “I haven’t seen it. You’re right I haven’t seen it. Mrs. Faraday saw him jerking the kid around and part of me wants to say maybe it wasn’t that bad. Accidents happen. But, maybe he’s decided to escalate from pulling to punching. I just.... The wall vibrated. He was yelling at his son and there was a thump and the wall vibrated. The boy was crying and I ran to the roof like a coward.”

“Not a coward, Darce. Never that, and don’t you say that again.” Jane’s voice is firm through the phone. 

“I’d agree with that assessment.” A voice from across the roof and Darcy holds the phone up in front of her like a weapon. “Definitely not a coward.” Jane’s tinny voice still sounds but Darcy is focused on the masked man across the roof. She watches him for a breath, then two but he doesn’t move. She resolutely does not try to handle the fact he could hear her friend’s comment over the phone from the other side of the roof.

“I can ask Thor to stop over to talk to the man if you’d like. They should be back soon. He’s getting better at not breaking people and you know he’s good with kids.” Jane’s voice has gone soft talking about Thor as Darcy raises the phone to her ear.

“No, Jane. No, you don’t need to send him. I’ll figure something out; sooner might be best in this case.” Darcy sighs. “I’m going to go now. Thanks for listening.”

“Try to sleep!” Jane shouts as Darcy ends the call. 

She drops into her chair and buries her head in her hands. “Not a coward.  Ran away, didn’t I? Could have...should have done something. Should be doing something right now.”

He’s closer to her when he speaks. “Maybe you are.” She looks up to see him considering her, head tilted. “You said a man in this building beats his son?”

“Yes,” and because second-guessing herself might just be a family trait, she throws in a caveat. “That is, from what I’ve heard and from what neighbors have seen, yes. I’ve not actually seen anything happen.” 

He’s there, but not. His focus is on something else. He mumbles something that sounds like “can’t believe I missed it,” in a tone that sets Darcy’s teeth on edge. That same tone Clint used when he tried to push her away, all guilt and self-sacrifice.

“Last I heard, humans weren’t omnipotent. You can’t be everywhere at once.” she counters.

“Fair point.” He acknowledges with a smile. This one only tugs at half his mouth as though only half his body is focused on her at the moment. “You left me cookies.”

“And a sandwich, trail mix, and a bag of chips.” Darcy ticks off on her fingers. “Do you like cupcakes? I thought cupcakes may be a little bruising to the hero image so I held off on those. But there can always be cupcakes.”

The smile fades. “Why?”

She knows he isn’t asking about the cupcakes, though she longs to rant on about tiny pieces of perfectly iced heaven instead of deal with his real question. It might be  _ why do you care _ ? or maybe  _ why do you bother? _ or even  _ why me _ ?

“I’ve got a friend. He fights; fights the good fight and all that jazz. Just day in and day out being a big damn hero.” Darcy shrugs. “It sucks. It pulls him under and buries him in guilt and stress and nobody ever stops to see if he’s okay because everyone he knows and interacts with are heroes as well. They’re all too far buried in their own piles to worry about his. Heroes are infallible and unbreakable, right? That’s bullshit. I don’t know you like I know him, but if you were he, I’d want someone leaving him cupcakes. A reminder that the regular folk care.” She sighs. “I don’t know, man. It’s a damn cupcake. Just accept it.”

He starts to respond but again his Hero Radar must go off and he’s staring beyond her, focused in on the city. He moves to the corner of the building and zooms in on a particular area.  “Don’t fall asleep up here. Thank you for the food.” He tosses over his shoulder as he leaps off the edge. There’s a ledge there, she thinks. Hopes. Prays. She resists the urge to run to the edge and try to watch where he goes.

~~

The masked man has become something of a status symbol. A woman in the coffee shop tells anyone who listens that he stopped her would-be mugger three weeks ago ( _ and doesn’t that make you so special _ , Darcy thinks unkindly. She’s never managed to be kind before coffee.) Darcy thinks she might be sublimating her worry over Clint , who is still out of the country with only one quick message from him to say it might be awhile before he could talk again, into worry over- and thus an obsession with gossip concerning- her new masked friend. In the two years she’s lived in her apartment, she’s not really been one for socializing. Now she hangs out by the mailboxes and does her laundry at different times to try and catch the word from her neighbors.

Mrs. Faraday has a love for gossip that transcends all logic. The woman had asked Darcy to cat sit the first weekend after Darcy moved in and in the course of making the ask had also downloaded her new neighbor on every single person in the building. Most of the people had since moved out and on; still, she knew way more about her neighbors than she necessarily needed. The older woman notices Darcy’s interest in the vigilante because it mirrors her own.

“What do you think of our new masked friend?” Mrs. Faraday has her cornered but good. They’re on the landing between the first floor and the second and Mrs. Faraday has somehow managed to squeeze her literally into a corner. 

“Uh...” is the elegant and witty response Darcy manages.

Mrs. Faraday humphs. “Don’t give me that. I need an answer, Miss Thing. Thoughts on the Man in the Mask, shoot.” The way she says it, Darcy sees the capital letter in the emphasis.

“Yes, ma’am. I stand with the heroes, ma’am.” Darcy snaps a salute; it’ll make the woman cranky but it’s worth it to watch her face crinkle up.

“So you think he’s a hero?” Here, Darcy knows, lies conversational landmines. Mrs. Faraday has lived through multiple wars and served her country. She’s already lectured anyone who will listen on the all-too-common use of the word hero. Its meaning has been dulled by the supers the media dubs heroes, etc. 

“I think,” she pauses and looks up the stairs to the next landing, longing for escape. Matt Murdock is making his way down the stairs. She thinks he’s close enough to hear her speak because he slows down. “I think that given the popular definition of a hero and given the actions reported by our neighbors, that the masked man could indeed be a hero. I don’t know that he crosses the superhero line; I’ve not heard of any superpowers but to stand up for what’s right when people aren’t necessarily with you? Yeah, that feels like a hero to me.”  If Matt enters this conversation, they’ll both be stuck here with no hope of escape. She wants to warn him off but can’t think of a way to signal him. How do you tell a blind man to run without also alerting the person you want him to run from?

Mrs. Faraday humphs again. “Well, I reckon you’ll have the right of it. Boy looks good in his outfit is all I’ll say. I heard that he ripped that man a new one for hurting his boy.” Darcy forgets trying to save Matt and focuses on Mrs. Faraday. 

“What man?” she knows her tone is edging on desperation but she needs to hear it.

“That ass of a man who lives below you. Some sort of weight lifter or trainer, he claims. Says he knocked the Man in the Mask around a bit, but I ask you- who is running around with his arm in a cast? The ass and not the Mask.” Mrs. Faraday positively cackles and Darcy can’t help the elation that fills her. “Can’t say as how he’ll beat that boy again. Not when he knows the neighborhood is watching. Heard Mr. Lu mention the boy may go to live with his grandmama; he overheard the man on the phone.”

Darcy hmmms her agreement and shifts her grip on her grocery bags. “The neighborhood  _ is _ watching,” she smiles.

“In any case, I know you hang out on the roof looking for him. You see that masked man, you tell him Ernestine Faraday wishes him well.” Mrs. Faraday waves and continues down to the first floor.

“I’m not looking-” but Darcy’s protests fall on deaf ears as the older woman ignored her. “By Thor’s hammer, I’m not looking for him. I just find..him.” Matt is still one landing up, leaning against the wall. “You lucked out,” she calls up to him as she climbs. “She was on a roll and you would have been trapped along with me.”

“I seem to have escaped, then.” he’s gripping his cane with both hands, holding it against his chest. Is it a shield or a comfort or is Darcy just reading too much into it?

“For now. Forewarned is forearmed; now you know to listen for her coming.” Darcy starts to go past but stops when she notices a bruise on his cheek below his glasses, a cut over his eyebrow, blood dried on his hairline. “Jesus, Matt. What happened?” He flinches at her tone or maybe he expects the hand she reaches out to- what? Touch the bruise? Pat his shoulder? She manages to stop herself from touching but just barely. They aren’t friendly enough for that, but she cringes over how painful it looks.

“Car accident. You should see the other guy.” he waves her concern away.

“Missed that news in the gossip mill. Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Darcy sets her bags down. “You got hit by a car. Was anybody there with you?”

He stands up straighter, away from the wall and maybe he thinks she missed the wince as he moves but she definitely did not, no sir. “I’m fine, just bumps and bruises. My friend took me to the hospital and everything checks out.” Still, he looks and moves like a walking bruise.

“Would it be weird to give you my number? I’m sorry if that crosses a line.” Darcy rambles, and again she blames her concern over Clint transferring to everyone she meets. “I just... it would make me feel better to know that if you needed, you had someone in the building to call. My boss is pretty understanding. When Mrs. Faraday had to wrestle all her cats into carriers to take them to the vet, she called me to come hold the carriers open.” I have the time. I want to help. Please let me help. If her thoughts were broadcasted, Darcy’s would be a billboard of worry.

He agrees to exchange numbers and Darcy feels a bit more in control. As he continues down the stairs with a promise to avoid angry sounding automobiles, she shoots off a series of texts.

To Jane:  _ Making pizza. Sleepover? _

To Clint:  _ I would miss your face if you died, so don’t. _

The only response is from Jane who promises she’s catching a cab over and will be there within the hour. Later that night, she calls Matt to see if he wants any of their pizza but he doesn’t answer. She hangs up before the tone and Jane grabs another slice.


	3. Just go ahead and bloody up your knuckles knockin' at my door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Man becomes a Devil becomes a Matt

Darcy is out getting dinner when Hell’s Kitchen explodes. She had called in her order, picked it up, and gotten half way back to her apartment when the ground shakes and fire rises into the sky. There’s a strange feeling of detachment as she watches people take in the fire and begin running. She imagines there are metallic robots rising from the flames and has to shake the vision from her head. The heat from the fire is close enough she feels stifled and yet, she drops her food and runs towards the flames.

She can’t do much, isn’t trained to give the right aid, but she holds hands, tries to keep people calm, and helps organize rides to hospitals. Phone lines are busy and emergency services not available, but a few taxis are in the area and agree to ferry people to the emergency room. Others miraculously have vehicles on the street that were untouched in the blast. Most everyone pitches in to help and if she had the time to consider it, it would warm her heart.

They get word that churches will open their doors to those displaced by the fires and she heads to the nearest one. There are blankets and snacks to pass out. Darcy takes a moment to call Matt and when he doesn’t answer, calls Mrs. Faraday both to verify their building is still standing and to see if everyone is okay. Mrs. Faraday reports that the building stands tall and it’s residents are mostly unharmed. 

It’s closer to mid-morning when she is finally told to go home before she drops. Darcy joins a group of  two men and two women who live in the same area. Safety in numbers in the face of fire raining from the sky and all that jazz. Most of the fires are out, though she hears some buildings are still smoldering and being watched. There aren’t many people out on the streets and Darcy is glad for the company of her group. She leaves them as they reach her block, climbs slowly to her apartment and the comfort of her bed.

~~

When she finally swims back to consciousness, it’s 8 o’clock and dark out. She’s slept the whole day through. Mrs. Faraday is banging on her door and Darcy considers just rolling over and going back to sleep. 

“You don’t come to this door, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and break in.” The woman could shout and really, was that necessary? Darcy stumbles her way inelegantly to the door and opens it. She doesn’t wait for Mrs. Faraday to enter, just turns and heads to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. “I gather you haven’t heard?” Mrs. Faraday locks the door behind her, heads to the television and tunes it to the news.

“They’re calling the Man in the Mask the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen now. He’s being blamed for the whole mess- and for three murders, as well.” She mutes the set and reports the news herself. Darcy watches the images flit across the screen and the coffee slowly drips. That doesn’t make any sense.

Which is exactly what she says.

“You’re telling me. There’s no way that man is responsible. Some piece of shit is getting away with this because they’re blaming the wrong man.” Mrs. Faraday humphs and sighs. “Wanted to make sure you were alright and see that you’d heard the news. I’ll leave you to your coffee.” Darcy offers to make her a cup as well, but the older lady would rather head off to bed as she hadn’t slept the day away like some people.

Darcy doctors up a cup of coffee but lets it go cold in her hand. In her head, it’s like the street fair all over again; disconcerting and loud. She wants to decidedly state that the Devil had no part in the bombings, no part in the death toll- but second guessing is an art form she's perfected and god, the evidence is piling up in news report after news report. A murderer? The reporters seem to equate the word vigilante with killer, but that hadn’t been his pattern before.

If she escapes in sleep with the help of an over the counter sleep aid, she thinks no one would blame her for trying to silence her thoughts.

~~

The next morning, she sits in bed with the blanket around her shoulders and angry music playing just below the annoyance level. Her neighbors may cut her some slack today, but she doesn’t want to deal with any requests to turn it down. Her thoughts wander and she lets them, trying a little too hard not to focus on current events. She just keeps coming back to Clint and his struggles with Loki.

She makes cookies. Tray after tray, six different types. Chocolate chip, sugar, lemon iced, oatmeal, cinnamon.... After an hour’s hesitation, she makes Black and White cookies. They’ll be for the Devil. Good and evil, constant struggle in cookie form. Sleep and baking have helped clear her head but she still has doubts. The routine of measuring, stirring, shaping the cookies helps center her. Darcy feels her inner Mulder take root; she wants to believe. She’s used up everything in her pantry to get to this point.

She packages them carefully, writes a quick note and takes them up to the roof.

_ I don’t like to think of myself as having bad judgment. They say you destroyed our city but I just can’t see you doing that. I hope I’m right about you; please, prove me right. I’m here if you need anything. _

_ Darcy _

She refuses to spend the night on the roof looking for him, waiting for him. He’s probably in hiding with so many cops after him. Busy work in the form of neighborhood volunteer work and actual lab work keeps her focused for three days before she goes back up to the roof. 

The cookies are still there, untouched, and some of Darcy’s hope darkens.

~~

Darcy never gives up without a fight and this masked asshole is not letting her get her chance. She begins to eat dinner on the roof, laying in wait for him. She starts challenging herself to make a different cookie daily. Jane is thrilled with the development as she gets them after Devil is a no-show. It’s her ninth night up on the roof. She’s got a batch of sweet potato cinnamon cookies next to her, chopsticks in hand, inelegantly slurping noodles from a cardboard container when she hears things being broken in the apartment below her. She pauses, listening intently but it’s not all that hard. Whoever is in there isn’t trying very hard to stay quiet. 

There isn’t a weapon up here with her. She grabs the tin she’d put the cookies in; it’ll make a satisfying thunk against someone’s skull should she need to use it. By the time she’s worked up the nerve-  _ this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, Lewis. Call the cops and walk away, seriously! _ \- the apartment beneath her feet is silent again. Darcy tests the knob and the door opens silently. 

The landing inside the door looks in on a stark apartment. She can see that it was all neutral colors and sparse furniture; now it’s been trashed. A shuffling sound draws her attention to a man rising from his knees. He’s amid the wreckage and Darcy tenses because  _ shit, shit, shit _ , this man could be a burglar, a rapist, anyone. 

“Who are you?” the man is asking as he approaches the stairs.

But it’s not just any man. It’s Matt. It’s Matt and he’s wearing a familiar black outfit highlighting muscles she didn’t know the lawyer had. He’s not moving like a blind man now. He’s moving like an animal on the hunt, all fluid grace and power.

“Matt?” she wants to call out but instead is whispering because something isn’t adding up. She holds a finger up, blocking the top part of his face with it and sighs. Maybe  _ she _ is jeopardy friendly.

“Darcy? You need to leave. You shouldn’t be here.” Matt has paused on the first step; even on the stairs, she can see the evidence of a fight in the splintered wood. His hands clench and release. His eyes blink up at where she stands. 

“I’m starting to think you just like saying that.” Her mouth has gone dry but she walks down three short stairs, turns to face the destruction and Matt standing at the bottom. Darcy sits down on the landing. She’s too tired to stand. “Shouldn’t sleep on the roof, shouldn’t come to make sure no one is dead after hearing the sounds of an epic battle. Have you brought the bad guys home with you? Thought that was the whole purpose of a mask.” Could be she’s crazy. Could be she’s going to say these things and be completely off base. Could be she’s wrong, but she doesn’t think so. Matt’s gone tense below her, an unmoving statue, and he looks exactly like Clint did when she approached him in the alley.

“You’re, uh, bleeding. Right temple.” She takes a deep breath and holds it. He swipes at the blood but continues staring up in her direction. 

“Darcy, please.” Please go? Please stop talking? She doesn’t care to find out.

“You didn’t blow up our city, did you?” The answer is a tiny movement of his head, a reflexive movement, one so quick she’s not sure he even realizes- but that’s all she needed. “Didn’t think so. Mrs. Faraday wanted to go take up arms to defend you. We couldn’t both have been wrong. We’re too used to being right.” She hoped he would smile or do anything but stand there staring.

“I can’t-” he starts to say something but bites it off. There's the gruff growl in his voice now; he's all Devil and less Matt. She’s nervous, uncomfortable and thinks he must be as well.

“You don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anyone or blab to the cops or whatever. I’ve signed the hero bro code agreement.” He’s too far in his head. Better to leave him and let him make up his mind; maybe like Clint he’ll come to her when he’s ready, when he needs a friend. “I, uh, made you these; made the Devil these to tell him I was still on his side.” She sets the tin down on the step below her and stands up. “Meant it when I told Matt to call if he needed; Meant it when I called the Man in the Mask a hero. I’ll leave you to it.” She leaves out the way she came and Matt has yet to move.

Maybe it’s cowardice, but she grabs her things and nearly runs back down to the safety of her apartment. The world’s turned upside down and she needs time to process. Of course, when she sets up her laptop in bed to lose herself in Netflix, she finds an email from a juvenile-sounding AOL screen name.

 

To:  [ ddlewis@gmail.com ](mailto:ddlewis@gmail.com)

From:  [ hnsnluver314@aol.com ](mailto:hnsnluver314@aol.com)

Subject: Hell’s Kitchen

 

_ Hey gurl! _

 

_ Ignore typos, on tny cell. Can’t wait to see you again! Just hrd about the fires, hopin u r fine. _

 

_ Pls let me know _

 

_ Kthx bye! _

 

There’s a series of numbers at the bottom. After staring at the message for far too long, she dials the number and Clint picks up. Darcy cries when he asks if she’s okay and again when he tells her it will be another three weeks before he might possibly be stateside. He promises everything will be okay. She wonders if it will.

~~

For the first few days afterward, Darcy leaves her apartment only when absolutely necessary and is a bottle of tension as she moves through the building. After a week of not seeing Matt, she realizes he’s avoiding her. Well, fine, whatever. She’s got better things to do with her time then skulk around avoiding someone who is already avoiding her.

Darcy begs Jane for extra work, take home work, keep-my-brain-from-overloading work and Jane delivers. Jane comes over for dinner and brings three tote bags of old research notes to be transcribed. They’re unorganized and scribbled in corners of receipts and on napkins but they’re beautiful and Darcy can’t wait to dig into a new project. They make stir fry. Jane doesn’t question why they don’t go up to the roof to eat. Instead, she suggests a movie and they sit on the couch in silence as the movie plays.

“Are you going to tell me about it or are you just going to use me to bury yourself in work?” Jane asks as the characters kiss for the first time and sweet music swells.

“Was going to pretend nothing was wrong and hope that worked,” Darcy confesses. She’s laying with her head in Jane’s lap. She keeps her eyes on the screen, not looking up at her friend.

“That decision is obviously working so well for you.” Jane gently flicks her earlobe. “C’mon. Tell me what’s going on.”

Darcy sits up and sighs, wraps herself around a throw cushion. “I’ve met another wounded hero type and I can’t get through to them. I know that whole hero complex thing makes them all so damned annoying; ‘I’ve got to go it alone. No one can know, no one can help me.’ But, damn.”

“You can’t save them all; you definitely can’t adopt them all,” Jane says with a shrug.

“Can too. Can try anyway.” She sticks her tongue out like they're discussing collecting dolls and not collecting injured hero-people. 

“Well, do them like you do me when I’m in a state. Just continually be right there and ready. It works on me all the time.” Jane smiles and Darcy hoots a laugh. It makes sense, what she says. Can’t interrupt his mission and make him talk to her. But she can continue leaving him cookies; being there in some small way.

She hopes he has friends in his quest ( _Take this; it's dangerous to go alone_.) She thinks he will need them.

~~

Darcy makes chili; takes a container to Mrs. Faraday and leaves another container outside Matt’s door when he doesn’t answer her knock.

She makes cupcakes. Half of those go to Jane, a few go to the buildings’ mail lady, a few more get left at the roof access door leading to Matt’s apartment. She tried the knob but found it locked securely. No more slip-ups there.

Darcy doesn’t leave notes anymore. She’s pretty sure the blind thing isn’t something Matt fakes and she isn’t sure how he would read a handwritten card in any case. Instead, she hopes the continual presence of food will remind him he has a person in his corner. (She sends pictures of everything she makes to Clint with a promise to make the same for him once he returns. He responds and asks if Natasha could come along; if it means she gets a response to her text, she’d invite the whole damn team to her tiny apartment.)

Clint calls more often now. Almost nightly, Darcy can count on sitting on her couch listening to Clint bitch about something new. They’ve finished the main mission, she thinks, have moved on to clean up. Natasha is with him which seems to make everything easier on him. He’s making dinner on his end and she watches the news while nursing a cup of coffee. Some man is talking about the fires, about the masked man and Darcy tenses.

“Wait, turn that up. What are you watching?” Clint snaps.

She turns the volume up, angles the phone away from her ear as Wilson Fisk describes “...A dream I have for this city- a better place.” Clint hisses and it sounds like static in her ear. He lets loose a few curse words and either drops or throws the phone. Darcy is calling out to Clint when Natasha picks up the phone.

“Whoever you were just listening to; avoid,” Natasha advises in a hushed, hurried whisper.

“Did he tune in? Did he do that...thing?” Darcy doesn’t know how to explain it exactly, doesn’t know if Natasha has noticed.

“Yes. And if you’ve seen him do it, then you know what it means. Stay away from that person, Darcy. I’ll have Clint call you tomorrow.” Natasha hangs up and Darcy sits frozen, staring at the television.

~~

She’s bringing up a platter of cupcakes when she runs into a man she doesn’t know crying on the stairs. It’s late- later than she’s ever delivered food to Matt’s door but transcribing had kept her busy. She’s juggling the cupcakes and a bag of food as she rounds the final landing. The man is leaning against the wall, face in his hands. His posture is the very definition of having the weight of the world on your shoulders. 

“Hey,” she doesn’t approach him, can’t be sure who he is really. “Are you okay?”

The man straightens and scrubs his face. She thinks he realizes he can’t scrub away the evidence of tears but she doesn’t make any comment. “I’m fine. Just-” he shakes his head. “Fine.”

“Your words say one thing; your head says another.” She pulls back the foil over the cupcakes, holds the plate out to him. “Sugar. It’ll make everything better, guaranteed.”

“Right.” He’s frozen, staring at the plate. She steps forward and he doesn’t move so she moves forward again.

“Anything I can do to help? Do you want me to call anyone?” Darcy can’t think of why this stranger is in the stairwell, but she thinks maybe he needs a friend. God, she really does pick up strays.

“No. No one to call.” Finally, he reaches out to grab a cupcake. “Why cupcakes?” He meets her eyes now, as he unwraps the cupcake and takes a bite.

Darcy looks past him to the next floor, to Matt’s door beyond. “Got a friend on this floor who leads a complicated life. Sometimes I bring him cupcakes. He’s stubborn and not prone to opening up; gotta figure cupcakes might help.”

She’s said something wrong. Darcy can read it in the way the man stiffens, can barely swallow the bite he’s taken. “Of course. Of fucking course.” He drops the cupcake and takes the stairs at a jog. Shit, is this a friend of Matt’s? How had she fucked up talking about cupcakes? She scoops up the abandoned treat and balances it on top of the foil-covered plate.

Matt’s door is unlocked so she lets herself in. Again. Since it ended so well the last time she invited herself in.

“Foggy?” he calls, hopeful, from around the corner as the door opens. Then, “Darcy,” as she steps inside and closes the door behind her.

“I imagine Foggy is the gentleman I crossed paths with on the stairs. Friend of yours?” She passes him by and walks to his kitchen to deposit her cupcakes, throw out the ruined one. There on the counter is a stack of containers, tins and plastic ware she had left outside his door. She smiles when she sees they’re empty, frowns when she considers the mess in the apartment.

“Yes. No. Not anymore.” He stands, tries to stand and grimaces, falls back to the couch panting. 

“Sit down. Stay. Have you eaten?” She cuts him off when he starts to answer. “Real food. Have you eaten real food in the last day?” And really, the negative answer is no surprise. He has eggs that aren’t bad and she’d brought the better part of a spinach salad. She makes an omelet that might not actually suck and brings it to him where he sits on the couch.

He tells her in slow, halting sentences about Foggy finding out, about broken trust, about trying to protect a city from a man he can’t touch. Darcy listens while she cleans up, broken things and empty bottles. She learns that he can see, in a fiery haze. She learns that Foggy is his best friend. She can see he’s in a world of hurt beyond the physical pain- and that physical pain alone would be enough to keep her immobile. Man needs some sort of armor and she tells him as much but he just huffs a laugh. 

“I can’t counsel you. I mean, I’m not trained in the art of being a self-sacrificing hero.” Darcy sits on the chair across from him and picks at her nail. “You need people around you. You can’t be an army of one and it sounds like your friend was halfway to fighting the same fight. Let him in, do that manly groveling thing. There’s no need to play the martyr anymore if he knows.”

“I can’t see him get hurt.” Matt protests. Damn stubborn men. Can’t see his friend get hurt while he’s laying on a couch with at least three life-threatening injuries. 

“Fine. Then lose his friendship over this. That’s your call, Murdock. You’re bound and damned determined to wind up bloody and alone- and the sad part is, you are doing it to yourself.” Darcy stands up and collects her containers from the kitchen. “I’ve left cupcakes next to the sink. Chocolate with sprinkles. Just, please, call me if you need anything. You look like death warmed over.”

She leaves shaking her head and cursing the stubborn streak most heroes have.

~~

Science breakthroughs wait for no woman. Jane goes from tapping a dry erase marker against her head to violently stabbing pens at paper and highlighting important equations. Darcy calmly calls for delivery and settles in for a long night.

The long night turns into two weeks. She doesn’t manage to ever get Jane further from the lab than her apartment, so the two catch four to five nights at Jane’s apartment but most nights, they  crash on the couches in the lab. Jane leaves her wallet in Darcy’s care and Darcy uses it to keep them well supplied in coffee, food, and sugar.

Five days into the binge, she leaves Jane alone for four hours. Darcy wants to grab clothes, check her mail, take a shower... take donuts up to Matt, who doesn’t answer her knocks. Her go-bag at the lab had three outfits in it. The one she brings back with her has seven. She’s prepared for the long haul now that she has her own toothbrush and the extra charging cable for her phone.

She hears news filtered through lab interns. Hears of people dying, of Fisk standing in front of cameras and pledging his support of the city. Darcy does a bit of internet research on Fisk but can’t get beyond basic searches before being called away. There’s nothing dirty on him she can find, but based on Clint’s intuition, she fears the man.

At some point near the eight day mark, she calls Matt and leaves him a message warning him away from Fisk. It won’t work. She knows it won’t work, but she has to try. Darcy hangs up before she spews all the worry out onto his voicemail. Please be careful. Please don’t get dead. Please remember you’re only human.

As they hit two weeks, the lab goes from the murmurs of scientists sciencing to the stunned silence of people drawn in by a news story. Fearing another Battle with a capital B, Darcy cuts Jane off and drags her over to the nearest set. They join the lab guys from down the hall- entomologists, she thinks- in watching as Wilson Fisk’s world comes crashing down. 

First, there are reports on the “Savior of Hell’s Kitchen” being arrested for racketeering. Then come the reports of charges for extortion, money laundering, and drug trafficking. She texts Clint and Natasha a picture of the headlines. She thinks Clint might like to know that his radar was on the money about Fisk. Clint might hate his new talent but at least it’s a proven variable now.

The headlines make her angry. Angry enough that she steps away to grab food for most all the lab rats still working. Keeping track of the orders, juggling the bags and drinks, getting everything back without dropping it keeps her mind focused and calm. “Philanthropist in Custody,” one headline reads. As though someone accused of everything he’s done still deserves that title. She thinks dark thoughts as she passes round everyone’s order and divvies up change.

Everyone holds their breath as the first reports of a firefight break out. They flip from one channel to the next, looking for the best angle on the fight. They watch as the transport is attacked and Fisk escapes. There’s an hour of speculation across all news channels. The kind of speculation that makes you sick with worry and only exists because the reporters have nothing new to say but won’t give up their live broadcast in case something develops.

Darcy turns to Twitter and the Mask watch tags to see if the Devil has been sighted. She reads a few accounts of a man dressed as a devil, wearing red and black and sporting horns, wonders if that’s Matt or if there’s a new vigilante in town.

It’s nearing midnight before reports of Fisk being recaptured filter over the news. There’s speculation as to the Devil’s involvement, not on the news stations yet but from the scientists in front of her. They place bets on his involvement, crow to their buddies over how the Devil had to have been after Fisk the whole time.

When the reports break that the police are thanking the Devil for his assistance in the matter, money exchanges hands and scut work is assigned to those who didn’t believe in the neighborhood hero. Darcy can’t help but shake her head over the enthusiasm with which some lord their win. 

“Maggie. We get it; you called it. The Devil is a good guy. Leave Glenn alone.” Darcy claps to get people’s attention. “In fact, listen, you all should go home. It’s past midnight and you’re still at the damn lab. Don’t you have homes to get to?” She tries to shuffle everyone out before the call of their work can drag them back under. Manages to drag Jane away from her notes and bundles them both into a cab back to Jane’s apartment. 

Daylight seems a long time coming; she tries to sleep but can’t quiet the thoughts bouncing around her head. She leaves a note for Jane who is tucked away in her bed and still dead to the world. On her way back to her apartment, she passes newsstands proclaiming “Daredevil Collars Fisk” and can’t stop the grin from taking over her face. 

Darcy throws her bag down inside her front door, tosses her mail on the table, then turns around and heads up. She thinks about heading directly to Matt’s door, but instead continues up, up, up to the roof. 

She sits on her chair and waits for no longer than a minute before his door opens and Matt joins her on the roof.

“Heard you up here. Came to check on you.” He’s hiding behind his glasses, in his lawyer garb and wearing a half smile. 

When she runs to him, presses her lips to his like a wife greeting her sailor after months apart, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. In fact, his hand cups the back of her neck, tangles in her hair and for the first time in months, she isn’t worried. 

“I, uh,” she pulls away, blushing. She thinks he can tell because his mouth ticks up and his thumb brushes at the corner of her lips.

“After all the times you’ve fed me, I think I’d like to return the favor.” It’s Matt asking, but the Devil’s growl isn’t buried deep. 

“I think I’d like that.” Darcy agrees. He offers to escort her to a restaurant of her choosing that night and presses a kiss to her temple before backing away. She considers making a batch of icing, of the uses for extra icing, of the muscles hidden beneath Matt’s lawyer clothes. When her breath catches in her throat, she hopes he won’t catch it. The huff of air and the quick laugh as he opens his door tells her she isn’t quite that lucky.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, please hold that thought.” he pleads before stepping inside.

 

She promises.


	4. Girl in the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes receive the comfort they deserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've quit my job and accepted another since the last update. That's....a ton of emotional stress, y'all.
> 
> I tend towards hurt/comfort when I'm under stress, and I'm pretty sure this chapter illustrates that. I hope this fits with the rest of the narrative and gives a clearer picture of Darcy and Matt's budding relationship.
> 
> Thank you for your kind words.

Matt tends towards annoyingly punctual, she learns. He swings by her door at seven on the dot while she's still struggling into her date pants. It wasn’t even that she spent so long picking an outfit or flitting about anxious over the date. Jane needed the things she had already transcribed and swore there was an additional piece in one of the bags that dealt directly with her latest breakthrough. Darcy organized the paper by type and then by topic, then slowly walked Jane through what she remembered doing when she wrote the note. (It was on a brown napkin from a kebab stand; Darcy located the blasted scrap at 6:30. Because of course it took all day. Of Course.)

He waits just inside the door while she pulls on shoes and fluffs her hair in the hall mirror. He’s in nice slacks and a button down, still buttoned up like a lawyer. Darcy leads the way down the stairs but once they reach the street, they walk side by side. He’s limping, moving as though he’s broken in more than a few places. She had assumed that he would have an aversion to touch, wasn’t prepared for the little ways he invaded her space. A hand at her elbow, the light touch of his fingertips at the base of her spine, a shoulder brushing against hers as they turned a corner. 

They walk to a nice Indian place, tucked between a pharmacy and an electronics repair shop. Small or cozy might be the best word to describe it, but it's absolutely perfect. He’s a fan of sitting next to one another on dates, slides in after her and laughs when she accuses him of trying to make a move on her.

“I’ll have you know most people consider me to be suave.” The self-deprecating humor is an interesting quirk, but it’s accompanied by that uptick of a smile. 

“Totally smooth, I’m sure. Maybe it’s time somebody actually told you the truth.” When his eyebrows raise and his face opens up behind his glasses, she joins him in a laugh. 

They order completely different dishes and Darcy is thrilled in an offhand way. Dates in the past had tried to order for her or ordered the same as her, as though that might bond them together as they ate. It was refreshing.

He sits close, knee brushing hers as they eat and he relays a bit of drama happening in the back kitchen. It’s a subtle demonstration of his abilities, one that has embarrassing implications she refuses to examine. (If he can hear them fighting in the back office of the restaurant, could he have heard all of her conversations on the roof?) There’s a busser who has dated both the waiters on staff tonight. The three were currently having a heated argument without trying to alert the owner who was acting chef that night. 

With his information, it was easy to see the tension on their faces when they left the back to circle the restaurant and check on the guests. They move around one another but never actually meet. Drinks are refilled and tables cleared without any words exchanged. Matt draws in a breath and starts to say something, a warning maybe, as one waiter turns and smacks the busser across the face with his order pad. Darcy smothers a smile behind her hand. It’s like watching a soap opera play out in front of her.

In the aftermath, they skip dessert and pay the concerned hostess at the front. The staff has dissolved into shouted accusations and really, does this actually happen in real life? This can’t be true. The busser shoves out the door in front of them and runs out into the night. Darcy realizes her mouth is hanging open.

“Dinner and a show, I guess,” Matt comments as they turn to head back to their building.

Darcy bumps a shoulder against his. “That was amazing. Made me want to script it out and shop it to producers. I bet it would make an amazing reality show.”

“I could offer my legal expertise in the contract negotiations. I had a great professor in contract law.” His hand is warm at her elbow and her thoughts are pleasantly fuzzed over.

“In between all your other gigs, eh?” It wasn’t meant to be a question but it comes out as one.

“I’d make time for you.” 

She thinks it sounds like a promise. “You’re too much, Matthew Murdock.” She’s laughing, yes, but also shaking her head. Darcy knows exactly how Foggy felt on the stairwell. Matt hmms quietly in the back of his throat but allows the silence to lead them home. Maybe he realizes she’s a bit overwhelmed; maybe her heartbeat or her pulse or the timbre of her voice gave her away. In any case, she’s examining her jeopardy friendly, hero magnet abilities as they cross the street, now three blocks from home. 

Matt tenses and holds out his cane. “Can you hold this? I’ll just be a moment.” And he’s gone even before her hand wraps around the cane. She wonders idly if he’s pulling a Superman in the alley, pulling off his regular clothes to reveal his Daredevil suit. Would it have fit underneath his clothing? Is she meant to keep walking or stand here and wait?

Darcy takes two, three hesitant steps towards home. It’s a bit awkward holding his cane. There aren’t many people out on the street with her, but she feels as though each one is judging her as a fraud. She turns and puts her back against the wall, her hands clutching the cane in front of her as Matt had before. It’s most definitely a shield, she thinks, a buffer between her and the world. 

Her headphones have come out by the time he returns. He’s rumpled but still dressed for their date.

“I’m sorry.” He lays a hand over hers as he takes the cane from her, squeezes her fingers. She doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to but listens when he tells her. “Two streets over; they planned to kill the couple after robbing them.” It’s a struggle between anger, pride, and guilt that have her silent as they continue the trip back to their building. 

They’re within sight of the building when he speaks again. “I thought I could turn it off for a night and focus on you. I swear, I tried- but when I heard their screams.” He pulls her to a stop, waits for her to look at him. “I needed to help. You’ve been beyond gracious but I know you’re upset.”

She kisses him. Mostly to get him to stop talking, to stop explaining. She thinks  _ I’m just an exercise in his self-control _ and  _ how long can he turn off his need to save the world? _ and  _ is this frustrating or hot as hell?  _ Darcy’s not sure she wants any of the answers. Thinks maybe the unknowns are part and parcel in dating a hero-type; considers looking up a  Hero Dating Anonymous meeting. (There has to be one in New York. She’d bet her right tit on it.)

There’s a vision of Thor and Jane in her mind’s eye, frozen against the desert backdrop.  _ Metal and rage and dus _ t...

“I get it. You take time off and people get hurt.” Darcy smiles, imagines it’s a convincing one. Wonders if he can hear her desperation. “Maybe we shouldn’t waste what time we have on apologies?” She listens to Clint and she will listen to Matt- but right now, she’s focusing on her breathing and on keeping her heart calm and not on  _ fire and death and _ ...

When his kiss leaves her breathless and he invites her back up to his place, she agrees with a laugh. It would not be the worst decision she’s ever made; it certainly was better than a few she’d made in New Mexico. There was less tequila involved tonight, and where clearer heads prevailed, she was sure would work out just fine- and he was damn fine in any case. Displacement, denial.... distraction. She knows herself well enough to recognize her poor coping mechanisms. 

He opens the door and gestures her in before him. 

Matt places his things down carefully on the table by the door, follows her into the main room. “Have a seat, please. Coffee?” Walks on into the kitchen where he actually begins making coffee. 

He doesn't jump straight to seduction. (She also knows herself well enough to admit he wouldn't have to try very hard.)

Instead, he brings her coffee and he asks her about her life. Every now and then his attention shifts to the window but when she asks if he needs to go he just counters with another question. It’s when she finds herself telling him about her summer mud fights with cousins that she realizes he hasn’t shared much of anything.

“What about you? What was your childhood like?” He’s up and moving before she’s finished her question and she recognizes his restless energy as he tries to physically dodge the question.

“I’m a local boy. I grew up here.” He’s in the kitchen, touching things but not with any clear plan in mind. “Did you want dessert?”

 

~~

 

Dessert turns out to be some of her own cookies and kissing on his couch. 

She may or may not be straddling him when his phone goes off. Darcy doesn’t whine- she doesn’t. That sound was a groan of frustration, thank you.

"Foggy," announces the ever so helpful ring. Matt freezes, his hands clenching at her waist. The disembodied voice continues to announce the caller in monotone. Darcy sighs then leans back to snag the phone off the makeshift coffee table. 

"Answer him, dude. Or I will." Darcy gives the threat with a smile that’s all teeth and intention. 

“Foggy.” She thinks maybe it’s the Devil that growls the greeting into the phone. Matt’s hand still grips her hip, gripping and releasing a finger at a time. The pattern cascades: forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky and then in reverse.

“Matt. Josie’s tonight. C’mon, we need to celebrate.”  

“I’m not coming out.” Matt nuzzles her shoulder, nips through her shirt. He comes to some kind of decision, puts the phone down on the arm of the sofa with the speaker engaged. His hand returns to bracketing her waist, now sneaking fingers under the hem of her blouse.

“Please. Man, come on. I need you out here.” Foggy is drunk. She thinks Foggy sounds sweet when he’s drunk, but that doesn’t tamp down any of her annoyance over the interruption. He has an impressive capacity for begging.

Darcy may have said that last bit out loud instead of just in her head. She covers her mouth with her hands and leans against Matt as helpless giggles overtake her.

"What? Who is that? Matt am I on speaker?" 

"Yes, you're on speaker." Matt confirms.

Darcy greets Foggy with “Hey, Cupcake Ruiner!”

“Hey! It’s the woman from the stairwell.” He doesn’t seem bothered to be called a cupcake ruiner or to be interrupting anything. “Convince Matt to come out. You should come too. It’ll be fun.”

“We aren’t coming out Foggy. Thanks for the invite, though!” Darcy reaches out and ends the call. “I like your friend. Even if he did ruin a perfectly good cupcake.”

It turns out laughing while making out makes her feel seventeen again.

 

~~

 

Matt’s been divested of his shirt and hers is on its way off when they’re interrupted by the phone again. He’s been going so agonizingly slow that she fears another interruption may set them back to the beginning. This time, it’s her phone and it’s Clint’s tone. She wants to ignore it; wants to pretend she had not heard the alert.

She apologizes as she slips out of his lap to grab her abandoned purse. It’s a text message and she prays it will be a quick thing to respond and get back to Matt.

_ Where are you???? _

The excessive use of punctuation most definitely indicates his level of worry and she’s typing her response even as she explains to Matt that it’s her friend, the one who fights like Matt does, the hero.

_ I’m out with a friend. I’m fine. _

She doesn’t examine why she doesn’t name the friend or use the word date. That’s a conversation better suited for Jane and a pint of ice cream. (Because is this a date, truly or is it a booty call? It feels more like stress relief than the beginnings of a relationship but she’s never been able to see bonds form before she’s tangled up inside them.) Darcy is tucking the phone back into her purse as it rings in her hand.

“Clint, seriously-” Darcy answers, exasperation coating her greeting.

“WHERE ARE YOU.” It’s not a question, it’s a demand and it’s desperate.

“Clint. What’s wrong?” Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, slips her shoes on, and starts righting her blouse. She’s in response mode, barely tracking her own movements as she focuses on the phone. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Darcy. Please. Please just tell me-” the phone is taken away from Clint but she can still hear him repeating her name over and over again. Her eyes are burning and her lungs are stuttering. She knows this feeling, knows this panic. Her emotions are rising to meet his and she can’t quite stop them.

“Darcy.” It’s Natasha. Her voice is calm, soothing and Matt is now standing beside her, his hand a comforting weight at her elbow. His presence keeps her still when the restless, desperate panic that’s rising in her might have her pacing. “Darcy take a breath for me. We are fine. He had an episode after... after he read up on Fisk. We are in your apartment. Is there any way you could meet us here? I think he may need visual confirmation you are fine.”

Matt is moving to the door before Darcy makes a conscious decision to move. He’s back in his shirt, buttoned up and proper and  _ holy fuck. _

She takes a shuddering breath, then another. “We’re just upstairs. I’m on my way down.”

“Take your time, Darcy. You’re reacting to his panic and it won’t do either of you any good.” Natasha hangs up. 

Darcy is still clutching the phone to her ear when Matt clears his throat from over by the door. “I’ve got your bag. I’ll walk you down.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t-” Darcy steps towards him apologizing, but he holds up a hand. 

“I’m pretty sure this just makes us even for date distractions. We’ll just have to try again, make another go at it.” He’s smiling and damn, she can’t get over how it changes his whole face when he smiles. It distracts her, gives her something to focus on as she walks out of his door. 

He’s got his cane, taps down the stairs as they head to his apartment. She guesses it makes sense for him to keep up appearances, but after seeing him move so confidently through the alley and so gracefully around his apartment, it’s an odd disconnect. A Clark Kent versus Superman disconnect. She’s gripping the straps of her purse so tight they bite into her fingers.

When they reach her floor, his hand is back at her arm then on the small of her back as she unlocks her door. She has a moment to consider if it was wise, bringing Matt. The masked vigilante hero of Hell’s Kitchen meeting two of the Avengers who nearly destroyed it. Clint and Natasha are by the windows on the far side of her apartment when they enter. Clint’s face is tense and he’s ready to attack when the door opens.

Seeing the intruder is actually Darcy, Clint eats up the distance between them in less than three strides. “Darcy.” He hugs her tight, his nose pressed into the crook of her neck and his mouth moving against her collarbone. She’s tense and uncomfortable until she realizes he’s saying “You’re okay,” over and over again. His arms are a prison around her and she struggles to keep her focus on her friend.

She drops her keys, her bag at her feet and wraps her arms around him. “Clint, I’m fine. We’re fine.” Darcy tangles a hand in his hair to press him closer, not sure how else to help. Breathes in his panic, breathes out her own. “Take a breath, buddy. Breathe with me. You’re in my apartment. Everything’s okay.” Her words don’t seem to penetrate his fog, or at least he doesn’t loosen his hold on her. She meets Natasha’s eyes, raises her eyebrows in a question. (Relaxes her shoulders, clenches and releases her muscles from head to toe, breathes in for 7, out for 10)

“We read up on Fisk after the call. I think the information triggered a nightmare. He woke up screaming your name. We abandoned our post against orders, flew here to check on you. Even after your texts, he needed to verify...” Matt has taken a few steps inside and Natasha takes as many steps forward as well, trailing off her account. It’s like a showdown with Darcy and Clint in the middle.

“Natasha, meet Matt Murdock. He lives upstairs and appreciates my cookies. Matt, Natasha.” Darcy gestures around Clint.

“Murdock. The blind lawyer?” Natasha has apparently picked up gossip about Darcy’s building. 

“The same.” Matt is on alert, makes no move to come further into the room. He doesn’t seem insulted by Natasha’s blunt assessment. “I wanted to make sure everything here was all right before leaving, Darcy.” His comment is directed at Darcy, but his attention is still very much on Natasha.

“I think everything is going to be fine. Give me one moment and I’ll walk you out, okay?” Darcy levers her hands onto Clint’s shoulders and pushes. He pulls back far enough to meet her eyes, his own bloodshot and scattered. “Clint, this is Matt. I was upstairs at his apartment. I think you may have met him before.” Clint follows her gaze to Matt but barely acknowledges his presence. “I’m going to go into the hall with him and say good night.” She’s got her wounded animal voice on, but she’s not sure how much of it is penetrating Clint’s fog. His breathing is erratic and his fingers clutch even as she tries to pull away. 

She wouldn’t wish this on her worst enemy. She knows what that panic feels like. (But he looked at Matt and didn't flinch. That as good as vets Matt as a solid choice; one of the good guys.)

“Stand down, Agent HotArms.” Darcy orders and Clint lets go. She regrets the harsh tone almost immediately, but it did get him to react.

Natasha has her arm around Clint as Darcy finally breaks free. “Hot Arms?”

“I may have a thing for muscled arms.” Darcy shrugs. 

“So I see.” And by the way Natasha appraises Matt, Darcy thinks she definitely does see. And approve. “I’ve got him. Go say good night.”

Darcy’s response is a quick and smug smile as she turns to Matt. She walks him to the door, steps out into the hall with him.

“Hell of a night.” She breathes. “Sorry.”

“Not something you need to apologize for, Darcy.” He understands. Her heart stutters because,  _ my God,  _ he understands. He’s been through it or knows the effects or... “He’s calming down. He’ll be more steady when you go back in.”

“Good. I’m going to try and convince him to sleep. Wish me luck?” She tilts her head up. He steps forward, crowds her space, smiles. She accepts his kiss, angles for another.

“Luck. Call me tomorrow? I’d like to reschedule our dinner.” That smile may break her heart. Darcy agrees and watches him walk to the stairs because, and she may be repeating herself, but damn, the man is fine.

 

~~

 

Matt called it right; Clint is more himself when she walks back in. It takes a cup of tea and ten minutes for the guilt to arise.

“Darce, dammit. I’m sorry.” He’s got his face buried in his hands. “I clicked straight into panic. Loki, Fisk, it all got mixed up somehow.”

She doesn’t want to pat his back with an insincere  _ it’s okay _ , because it’s not okay. It’s ridiculous and horrible and she hates that she still tastes panic in the back of her throat.  _ It’s okay _ won’t help anything and in any case, Natasha is looking to Darcy like she expects more. Darcy aims to live up to those expectations. 

Falling back on what she knows, she stands up. “C’mon. We’re going to make apology brownies. I have those fancy ass chocolate chips you like so much.” The baking- and the inevitable mini food fight that breaks out- takes Clint away from the guilt. Chocolate always helps calm Darcy down. It seems to do the same for the two spies. 

 

~~

 

They settled on The Finder to accompany their brownies. Netflix has obligingly played them three episodes when Natasha gets a call. After a terse exchange, mostly noncommittal ‘mmm’s on Natasha’s part, the two of them gather their things to leave.

“Time to pay the piper for leaving,” Clint grimaces before stepping in for a hug. He presses a kiss to the top of Darcy’s head as she squeezes him tight.

“Don’t let them give you any shit. Take down names; I’ll kick the asses of the jerkiest ones. Tasha can take the rest.” It’s a shitty attempt at a joke, but Natasha and Clint both smile. Natasha isn’t one for hugs, but she does take another brownie on their way out.

Darcy closes the door, leans her head against it, and tries to fight the oncoming urge to cry- or scream. Her nerves are shot from hours of pretending everything was okay; from watching Natasha and Clint pretend that everything was okay. Everything is not fucking okay and it makes her so angry she wants to throw something.

She has her shoe in her hand- because impulse control has never been her strongest virtue- when there’s a quick knock at her door. Instead of throwing the shoe, she throws open the door while schooling her features into something resembling calm and collected. 

It’s Matt. He’s in sweats and a soft shirt and sans cane.

“I’m sorry.” He’s got his mouth twisted up. It’s a grimace and a smile all at the same time. “I’m only just now realizing that this reads as creepy but... I know you’re having a bad night.”

Darcy laughs, because really? “Yeah. Bad night. That’s kind of my forte lately, I guess.” She backs away, leaves the door open, kicks off her remaining shoe and leaves them pressed against the wall.  “Come in if you want. I’m just cleaning up after...” For some reason, it’s the sight of the damn brownies that has her breaking. 

The tears catch her off guard and Matt catches her when her knees weaken. There’s not a part of her that isn’t reeling; that isn’t in pain. She can’t breathe because nothing is right and it’s not  _ right _ . Maybe the tears will clear the anxiety out of her system. Darcy leans her forehead against Matt’s shoulder and gives into the waves of tears. There’s no fight left in her.

He holds her, holds her upright and a part of her wants to feel embarrassed but mostly she just feels comforted. The tide of her tears turns eventually and she laughs, lightly smacking a hand against his chest. 

“You were eavesdropping.” She accuses as she leans back and swipes at her face. She feels more centered now, steady.

“Habit.” his hands bracket her face and she tenses. 

_ Please don’t kiss me, not with the tears still drying on my face. _

But instead of a kiss, he sighs and rests his forehead against hers. “You need sleep. I’ll let myself out; lock up behind me.” Matt starts to pull away but Darcy grabs his arm.

“You could stay.” Matt tilts his head as he considers her offer. She wonders if he’s trying to decide if she meant it or just said the words. After a moment, he agrees.

“You need to sleep. I’ll clean up.” He’s smiling. “You go get ready for bed.” She tries to find her annoyance over being managed but can’t quite pull it out from under the pile of her other emotions. Besides, it feels ridiculously nice to be the one being taken care of for once. 

Darcy gathers a set of pajamas and takes the longest, hottest shower the pipes will allow. When she comes out, he’s sitting on the end of her bed.

“Are you going to read me a bedtime story?” She asks as she passes him and sits down against her pillows.

“If that’s what you need.” She had tried for lighthearted, but his tone is serious.

“How good are you at cuddling?” It was a test. Oh, it was a test, but he turns towards her with a smirk and  _ hello _ , the smirk is even more killer than the smile. He stands up, walks around to the head of the bed and joins her against the pillows. There’s an awkward moment where he holds his arms out like a favored uncle asking for a hug- permission, he’s asking permission- and she nods, allows herself to be pulled against the expanse of him. 

He’s warm and when he hums into her hair she can feel it vibrate through his chest against her cheek. “The first cuddle is free; they cost after that.” She stiffens. That sounds inappropriate and off-putting, but he strokes her arm. “Cupcakes. My fee sheet clearly delineates a fee of three cupcakes per cuddle.” He’s embarrassed by his misstep, she thinks. He presses a kiss to her head, with a “Sorry.” 

“You’re ridiculous, Murdock.” she mutters. Then, “thank you,” followed by a yawn. Darcy surrenders to sleep quicker than she would have thought possible. Perhaps it’s the emotional drain of the night or the comfort of being held. In either case, she sleeps.

 

~~

 

It’s the same nightmare she’s had over and again. She’s crouched behind an overturned car, in front of a store that’s on fire. The air ripples in the heat and the whirring crunch of metal has her tensing up. There’s no one around, no one between her and her impending death. The screams have stopped and all that remains is the crackle of fire. 

The giant robot destroyer twists, turns unnaturally and focuses in on her. She’s going to die. She’s going to be burned alive. 

Darcy stands up, unwilling to play the helpless victim. She’ll die standing up (though she still prays for a savior as her tears blur her vision.) There are bodies lying prone in the streets of Puente Antiguo. She refuses to examine them for fear she will recognize their faces as she steps around the car. In avoiding the other bodies, she’s come upon her worst nightmare. Thor looks close to peaceful, prone on the street with Jane’s crumpled form over him. Save for the blood and burns, she could almost pretend they were just....

Her knees buckle and a high pitched keening rips from her throat as she falls to the ground. No. 

_ No no no no _ ....

The face of the Destroyer heats up, goes orange then rippling fiery red, and Darcy prepares for the end.

Then there’s Matt, standing in front of her, facing down Death. He’s not Thor, he’s just a human and that fire will kill him just as sure as it would consume her. There’s Clint coming to stand beside him with Natasha at his elbow. They’re all going to die. They will burn here in the desert.

To try and save her.

_ It’s all her fault _ . 

The fire comes. It blows through her heroes, tossing them aside before burning her whole. She wakes up screaming, feeling flames licking at her skin.

~~

Matt’s not touching her but he’s right there next to her, talking in a low tone. “You’re all right. It’s just a dream. I think maybe you’re coming out of it now. Darcy?” It sounds like he’s been keeping a steady stream of words going for a bit.

She’s shivering and so glad not to be trapped beneath coverings or between arms. Darcy sits up and wraps her own arms around her knees. Salt streaks her face and her breath is heaving like she’s been running- or screaming. “I was screaming, huh?” She asks, burying her face against her knees. The world is shaking, or maybe she is,  and she’s not quite sure how to make it stop.

“Just a little.” He sits up, a warm presence behind her. His hand hovers before closing gently over the back of her neck. Darcy starts but doesn’t object to the touch as he attempts to massage the stress away. “It sounded bad.” 

“Death. Fire. Destruction. The usual.” Darcy huffs a laugh before leaning back against him. Matt is an obliging sort and wraps an arm around her waist as she settles more snuggly against him.

“Were you here or back in New Mexico?” She thinks it must pain him to ask based on the way the words climb out of him. Her nightmares tend towards the desert but there have been a few starring Hell’s Kitchen.

“New Mexico.” The last thing she wants to do is discuss her dream world. Darcy turns to face him, tentatively kisses him. Then, she kisses him again because she’s never done anything by halves and he leaned forward into her like he wants more. There is panic still circling her system but it starts to calm as she focuses on Matt. 

They are wholly focused on one another and she’s sure this is the best possible way this night could end. He’s smiling at her and she can’t help but smile back- but it’s tense around the edges. The panic has died, but the memories of what she had witnessed remain. In a quiet desperation to remind herself that she was alive, that he was whole, she slips her finger under the hem of his shirt to press fingers against the muscles of his stomach. 

Darcy doesn’t tell him that he dies in her dream, but she thinks maybe he understands from the way she focuses on slipping his shirt off and running a hand over his very-much-alive-and-well-shaped chest. She remembers some quote about it being unfair that the guy looked Photoshopped. It makes her laugh as she nips at the skin above his heart (still beating, still alive.) He’s not quite photoshopped. A roadmap of scars and bruises mark his skin. She explores him with teeth and lips and hands, grasping for the real to avoid the dream.

His hands are gentle, reverent even, in response. Matt smiles as he presses kisses to her skin. She can feel each one in a tingling roadmap across her body. His smiles and her need and...

It’s cliche, maybe, that sex helps reaffirm life. Darcy finds that she no longer gives a shit.

 

~~

 

Darcy doesn’t realize she’s been keeping some sort of comfort tally in the back of her head until two weeks later. She’s making dinner in Matt’s apartment. He had let her in and then swanned off to go be a hero. And, well, she’s not exactly used to it but his kitchen is cleaner than hers. 

He stumbles in from the roof hours later, battered. There’s no blood this time but his entire body buckles under an invisible weight as he reaches the couch. Darcy is curled up in a chair facing away from the window, the billboard light playing across the book in her lap. Matt knows she is there, he always knows where she is, but he hasn’t acknowledged her presence yet. 

Watching him, she’s learned he carries his pain in his shoulders; all guilt and silence, hunched up around his ears. Since the talking thing doesn’t work, she tries the touching thing. Darcy puts a bookmark in her book, approaches Matt slowly. His face is cold when she lays her hand against his cheek. He leans into it, reaches out to pull her closer until she settles, standing between his legs. 

Matt wraps both arms around her waist and rests his forehead against her stomach, his breath huffs against the fabric of her shirt. She grips his shoulders, soothes her hands down them, tangles fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s definitely for balance and maybe because she wishes she could ease whatever is eating at him. A quick tug on his hair has him looking up at her.

“You wanna talk about it?” she offers.

He shakes his head and pulls her tighter to him, his ear pressed to her and his nose brushing the underside of her breast. She holds him like that for twenty minutes, longer maybe, until her legs start to tingle. He straightens before she can say anything, or even shift her weight. Matt unclenches his hands from her shirt, smooths the fabric out, stands then steals a kiss. 

As he changes clothes, going from Devil back to Matt, she reheats a plate of food. 

“If you won’t talk about it, I can just talk at you until you break. I’ll even let you eat whilst I torture you.” She sets the plate down on the scarred table, resists cringing as he carefully lowers himself into the seat. 

“I hardly ever encounter such an offer; how could I refuse?” He’s left his glasses off and his face is open. Darcy regales him with lab stories and quite a few horrible science jokes as he eats. One word answers and smiles are her only response, but she keeps the chatter up. His shoulders have returned to their almost normal levels of stress by the time he pushes his plate away. Matt hasn’t told her, will probably never tell her what happened that hurt him so badly (and damn, she picks at that like petals from a flower: does she want him to tell her or is she glad he keeps it separate from their relationship? It’s none of hers to know; he should be able to share with her; secrets save lives; secrets cause deaths.) She falls silent, picking at the surface of the table as he walks away.

His plate is in the sink and he’s standing there watching her, his head tilted as she goes to gather her book and her purse. Darcy hadn’t planned on staying over; they haven’t discussed that yet and it’s still awkward to assume anything. She wants to go, read her book, pretend everything is fine.

“I believe a home cooked meal earns you another cuddle session,” he’s holding himself very still. “If you wanted to trade that in, I’d be amenable.” It takes her a moment to realize that he’s asking her to stay, asking for comfort in his own stilted way. She swallows her sarcasm- because, Christ, really? You can’t just ask?- and puts her things down.

“That sounds like an agreeable trade.” Darcy slips off her shoes and leads the way to his bedroom.

It’s better this time, without the tears. His hands tangle in her shirt as he holds her. It anchors him, Darcy thinks, because she can hear his heartbeat slow beneath her.  

She sleeps and there are no nightmares to haunt her. When he wakes her in the morning- it’s early, too damn early- he brings her a cup of coffee. He’s already dressed, shiny lawyer overtop the bruises. He seems lighter than he had last night and it makes Darcy smile.

Matt scuffs a thumb across her cheek, presses a kiss to her head and leaves with a quiet, “Thank you.” 

She burrows back beneath the sheets and sends a quick text to Jane. Darcy will be late into work; she’ll bring by lunch later in the afternoon. Right now she’s just too damn comfortable to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> A playlist of sorts, built through the chapter titles and the bits that caught my attention as I wrote.  
> Chapter One- "Baptistina" by Glen Phillips. Baptistina, the comet that claimed the dinosaurs. Glen asks that Baptistina come crashing down and wipe the slate clean, to swallow everything old into the new. Darcy’s world has come crashing down and New York swallows her in the new. Man, music is swell.  
> Chapter Two- Josh Ritter “Henrietta, Indiana”- partially the reason i started writing this nonsense. A man who can see the Devil in the eyes of his family, the Devil that’s passed to him by the end of the song. Remind you of any other beautiful angry cats? Oh, Matt.  
> Chapter Three- Punch Brothers “I Blew it Off”  
> Chapter Four- Josh Ritter, again, “Girl in the War”


End file.
